


Sins of the Wolf

by rinshankouhai



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinshankouhai/pseuds/rinshankouhai
Summary: Of the Patriarch who fell from grace, and the truths he leaves untold.





	Sins of the Wolf

Cold wind whipped snow harshly through Northern air, chilling Pjotr to the bone. Even after coming all this way, the poor farmer was beginning to have second thoughts. His old horse had damn near given out on him, but here he was: that great black fortress jutting up from blankets of untouched snow, looming over him like some devilish thing. 

A knock at the vast doors was not necessary. They were expecting him; before he could even touch the thick teak, it slowly swung open, the creak of its iron hinges barely audible over the howling gale. There stood a tall figure, pale skin backlit by the warm glow of oil lamps within. Instantly he felt inferior in the face of its fine suit and noble countenance, that sharp scarlet gaze looking down on him with pure disgust, piercing through the dim light. Yet it smiled, a sharp and dangerous smile, the look of a predator.

"Welcome," it purred in pitch-perfect Russian, each syllable the shape and temperature of an icicle. "Mister Pjotr, I assume. You're just on time."

He could only nod. Every fiber of his being was telling him to turn tail and run, but he knew that he could not. They would make a sport of him in an instant.

"The Young Master is ready for you. Please, do come in."

He shook the snow off his shoulders and wiped his boots as well as he could, turning to look back worriedly over his shoulder.

"Ah, you fear for your horse in this dreadful chill, yes? Worry not. It will be taken care of. Come, come."

With that he was ushered in before he could put together a reply, the door closed quickly behind him as he was enveloped in the relative warmth of the entrance hall. If he felt out of place before, it was nothing compared to now; here he stood, crude pelt-cloak over his shoulders, smelling of sweat and dirt-- compared to the enormous vaulted ceiling, the fine plush crimson rug that ran the length of the hall, the gold candelabra, the huge paintings, he was like... Vermin. From the creature's expression, he knew it felt much the same. Yet he was guided down the hall like an honored guest, the finely-dressed monster humming 'Oy, moroz, moroz' as they passed the pale portraits of previous Patriarchs.

All too soon, they had arrived at the far end. Stood before those great double doors, he was overcome with a sense of unholy dread, which the creature at his side picked up on instantly.

"...Do compose yourself," it remarked dryly with the cock of an eyebrow, promptly pushing open the door before he had a chance to.

In an instant he was blinded by sheer opulence the like of which he had never even dreamed. Gold and marble and grand tapestries, the air filled with the smell of rich wine and bountiful food laid out on banquet tables-- more than he could eat in a year's time, he reckoned, though did these creatures truly need to eat? The great red carpet continued through the cavernous room, and on either side of it stood dozens of this land's true masters. Every last scarlet gaze in the room was piercing through him, sizing him up, carving his flesh with their eyes. The raucous conversation died down to a murmur, looks of amusement passing through the inhuman crowd.

The thing at his side stepped forward, standing straight and placing a hand over its still heart.

"Presenting the farmer and serf, Pjotr of Arkhangelsk," it bellowed in a practiced manner, echoing through the enormous throne room, "to hold audience with His Grace, Seventh Patriarch, the Honorable Lord Nikolai Nikolaevich Volkov the Third." 

The name chilled him, and his eyes foolishly wandered to the end of the room. There on an opulent throne of gold and ivory sat the greatest monster of all, draped in a dark fur mantle and wearing the Devil's Crown, black as pitch with rubies red as blood. It regarded him with anticipation, crimson eyes narrowing in dry amusement, chin resting on fist.

Pjotr had not met eyes with the Patriarch for a full heartbeat before he quickly removed his hat, averting his unworthy gaze to the floor. He was given a shove forward by the servant, and that distance-- that stumble down the throne room, though it was shorter than the grand hall-- felt like it took an eternity to cross. He was close, now, and he quickly bent the knee in supplication, eyes glued to the carpet and breath shallow in his lungs. The twisted Lord may have appeared younger than him, slight and slender, but he knew it could kill him as easily as drawing breath.

"Stand," came the Patriarch's voice, like boiling oil in his ears. Shakily, he got to his feet, his heart feeling as though it would rip its way out of his chest at the slightest provocation.

"No need to be afraid," Nikolai purred, smiling and gesturing toward him. "We welcome you as an honored guest. Be they troubled times or peaceful, I would never turn a blind eye to my subjects."

"T... Thank you, my Lord," he mumbled meekly, the first words he had managed since coming to this accursed place.

"Of course," came the reply, warm and reassuring, coated in honey. "Come now, meet my eyes. Let us speak man to man. We are friends here."

Pjotr knew he had no choice; he slowly lifted his head, fixing his gaze upon those bloody crimson eyes. Honeyed though the voice may be, those eyes were hungry, that smile was not kind.

"I understand you're having some difficulty with the farm," Nikolai continued, smiling broadly. "Of course, things are always tough in these frostbitten months."

"Y-Yes, my Lord," he stammered, clutching his hat tightly. "It's the cows, you see..."

Nikolai could taste the peasant's hesitation. All it took was an expectant raise of the brow to make him blurt out the rest.

"I've just had to give so much for your monthly feast, I can't rightly keep up, my Lord, and I've not the coin to--"

"So we've been greedy, hmm?" the Patriarch interrupted, making Pjotr's blood freeze in his veins.

"Of course not, my Lord, it's just--"

"No, no." Nikolai lifted a hand, ceasing the man's blubbering and sighing quietly. "Spare not my feelings, good Pjotr. I can see that we have taken too much from you in our drunken merriment. You must forgive me; it's been a blessed time of celebration with my Ascension, and I gave insufficient thought to the plight of the common man. For what is a Lord without subjects?"

"Hear, hear," came a cry of agreement from the jovial crowd, followed by a chorus of the same, all more amused than the last. But a tiny seed of hope had been planted in Pjotr's heart from the Lord's surprising sympathy, a hesitant smile on his face.

"I would be happy to assist you, Pjotr. A hefty sack of coin should reverse your fortune."

"Oh, thank you, my Lord, you're very generous--"

"But," the Patriarch interjected, holding up a finger. "It is not our tradition to give for free. We must see if you are favored by Fortune first."

All at once, the atmosphere became expectant, and the waves of dread once again crashed at the farmer's heart. Before he could formulate a reply, the nameless servant wheeled two large pedestals before him, both topped with an ornamented urn. 

"I want to help you, of course, but the old ways must be followed, you understand." Nikolai gave a heavy sigh, as if he regretted the necessity, and held out a hand to each urn in a grand gesture. "Simple chance. One of these urns contains a coin; if you choose correctly, I shall multiply it a hundredfold. A fine prize for such favorable odds, don't you think?"

A quiet laugh rippled through the room; cold sweat was already beading on Pjotr's brow. He knew he could not trust the devils, yet... It was an opportunity he could not afford to lose. His mind drifted to the beleaguered wife and hungry children at home, and he found himself nodding, slowly stepping forward.

"Choose one without looking, and reach inside to find the coin," Nikolai instructed. A simple game indeed, and yet Pjotr found his mind racing, heart thumping painfully in his chest. Left or right? There was no room for deduction but he couldn't help agonizing-- would they expect him to favor his dominant hand? Or perhaps because it was obvious, they would expect him to choose the other--

"Quickly, Pjotr." The voice made him jump. All eyes were on him, the anxious pressure enough to crack his ribs.

No time for guessing. All could do was pick one and...

He reached in. His gut told him to choose the one on the right. There was utter silence in the room as he carefully groped around for the coin. This feeling-- Something was there! Metal, round, ridged, he quickly fumbled to pick it up--

_Click._

Suddenly, a mechanism closed tightly around his arm. Much as he pulled, neither arm nor urn would come free. Nikolai gave a sympathetic click of the tongue, shaking his head.

"Oh, Pjotr..." he sighed, shrugging plaintively. "It seems Fortune did not favor you today."

And then he grinned. Widely. Horribly.

All at once, an unbearable heat erupted in the urn. Pjotr's eyes widened in panic as he felt the flames licking at his hand, pulling frantically to no avail. From all around him erupted wicked laughter, the gallery of bloodsuckers cackling at his pitiful struggle. Searing agony raced up his forearm, the flesh of his hand singing and blistering, a pitiful scream rising in his throat that was quickly drowned out by deafening laughter.

As the vampires closed in, the last thing Pjotr saw was the Wolf's cruel smile from beneath the wicked crown.

  


His freshly-drained blood was served along with dessert soon after, the dinner guests praising the peasant's uniquely fruity _terroir._ Thus another evening's entertainment came to a close, just one in a series of ever more amusing thousands.


End file.
